


The Vampire and Ms. Victoria

by Jubalii



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alucard is still a Vampire though, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, Inspired by a Movie, No Smut, Off Hiatus, Romance, Slow Build, Supernatural Elements, small chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 04:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10756902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: When young Seras Victoria defies her family's wishes and moves, she finds herself in the sleepy town of Whitecliff. Taking a gloomy and rather creepy cottage, she finds that the rumors of its being haunted aren't entirely unfounded. But when her inheritance falls through and she's left penniless, she goes to extraordinary lengths to remain in her new home.[A.U. of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note** : I still enjoy The Ghost & Mrs. Muir. As big a fan as I am of "old" movies, I have to say that this one was almost ahead of its time, as well as the book. Lucy doesn't take any flack from anyone, even her old in-laws, despite being a grown bereaved widow in a time when women were expected to be entirely dependant on others.

Since I finally got around to getting the DVD as reference (it's a rare day when AMC shows this movie!), I'll be more frequent in updating this story. Sorry to those of you who've been waiting since 2014!

* * *

_It's always such a bother to break away from these sorts of scenes. I ought to have just written the letter and sent it after I'd gone. You'd think it was the turn of the century, the way they're carrying on._

Seras Victoria, nineteen years of age and recently—as in, exactly one year to the day—orphaned, sat staring blankly out the window of her great-aunt's expensive manor home. Said great-aunt, dressed from bony chin to skeletal toe in black linen and lace, was sitting across the tiny round tea table and staring severely upon the tiny blonde that had landed upon her doorstep a year ago. Her mother, an aged, weeping thing, was employed in her favorite hobby of dabbing at her bloodshot eyes with a handkerchief. The tea sat between the three, untouched.

"My mind is made up," Seras finally said, cutting through the oppressive silence as she turned her eyes from the fruit stand across the street to the embroidered tablecloth.

"Oh, Seras!" her great aunt exclaimed sharply. "I've never heard of such a thing!"

"Oh, Seras, Seras!" the eldest woman wept, fishing for a drier handkerchief in her skirts.

"Please don't make it more difficult," Seras asked, fighting the exasperation that gnawed in her stomach. "I know you've tried to be generous and kind," she consoled them, finally looking her great aunt in the eyes, "but I simply _can't_ live here." Her great-great grandmother shook her great aunt's arm lightly, upsetting the antique veil draped over her pale curls.

"Eva, speak to her!" she pleaded, wide-eyed.

"Are you serious, Seras?" her great aunt hissed, narrowing her eyes. Seras squared her shoulders, rising to full height in her chair.

"Yes, Aunt Eva. I am." Her great aunt shook her head.

"And your poor parents not cold in the ground."

"They've been dead almost a year," Seras protested. She kept her voice calm and even, though her lips admittedly trembled at the mention of her poor mamma and papa.

"Still," the older woman said, eyes flitting to the tea tray and back, "you might have _some_ consideration for your parents' memory." Her great-great grandmother nodded in time with the other's words. A sigh swept past Seras's lips, unable to be stopped in time.

"I don't see what my parents have to do with this," she admitted, frowning down at the tablecloth and scratching at a hole in her casual jeans. "I'm not leaving them. I'm leaving you."

"After all we've tried to do for her," her great-great-grandmother whispered, dabbing harder at the consistent flow of tears. Seras looked at her, offering a tight smile.

"You mustn't think I'm not grateful," she said imploringly, reaching out a hand and placing it on the old lady's. Her skin was crinkled like wet paper and felt of the grave: cold and lifeless. She looked back up at her great aunt. "You've both been so kind to me, but I'm not part of the family, not really." She winced at her words, which sounded a little callous in the current situation. "I never knew you except through my parent's memories, but now they're gone." She swallowed. "I have my own life to live, and you have yours… and they simply won't mix."

"Whatever do you mean?!" the great-great-grandmother cried.

"Well, it's just that… I've never had my own life before. First it was my parent's life, then yours and Aunt Eva's, and now?" she trailed off. Her great-great-grandmother began to cry openly, with little sniffs and whimpers.

"Stop sniveling, mother," her great aunt ordered. She pursed her lips. "If she's determined to make a fool of herself then there's nothing we can do about it." Her mother looked up, kerchief held to her mouth.

"But what will I have to remind me of the poor, dear Victorias?" she wailed, the sound muffled by the damp cloth. Her great-aunt seemed to want to roll her eyes, but instead turned back to face Seras again. She shook her head and rose to her feet, hand seeking the brooch at her neck. She moved to the window, pointedly turning her back on the party.

"I'm sure I don't know how you'll manage, Seras," her great-great grandmother managed to say, her hysterics softened for the moment. "You haven't any money." Seras laced her fingers on the table, ignoring decorum as she thought.

"I have the income from Dad's stocks. I can live cheaply with only Walter." Her great-aunt whirled around, expression one of disbelief.

"Seras Victoria, do you mean to say that you're taking _Walter_?" she gasped incredulously. Seras returned the look with one of perfect ease.

"I don't see why not. Walter was with me even when I lived with Mum and Dad. He can come with me wherever I go."

"Of all the ungrateful—"

"Please, Aunt Eva," Seras interrupted, standing and squaring up with the old woman. "I'm sorry, but I've made up my mind."

"But _where_ , Seras? Where can you go?" her great-great grandmother asked, turning slightly in the chair to look at her while her great-aunt stormed away to the mantle.

"The seaside, I think." Seras nodded to herself. "I've always wanted to live by the sea." She paused, looked at both women. "Well, that's all I've got to say."

"I should think it's quite enough!" her great-aunt retorted. "Apparently there's nothing we can do about it, but when you've realized your mistake and try to come crawling back to us, well—don't expect any encouragement from me!"

"I won't, Aunt Eva," Seras replied calmly, knowing it would rile the older woman.

She wasn't wrong.

* * *

"Excuse me!"

Seras stepped into the charming little store, looking around at the folders on the shelves, pictures of houses decorating the walls.

"Oh, pardon _me_!" she gasped, when she realized that the only man in the room was currently biting into a large sub sandwich. He looked at her, lettuce and onion dangling from his mouth, and managed a sheepish smile before chewing and reaching for his napkin. He rose, wiping his hands as he swallowed and reaching to shake hers. She was glad that gloves were required as part of her new police uniform, which was a little on the old-fashioned side. It suited the old-fashioned town she'd ended up in, though, and she didn't mind. After all, she'd spent the past year holed up in her great aunt's manor with two women stuck in the early 1900s.

"It's quite all right," the man replied not unkindly, wiping the remnants of his last bite from his thin mustache and patting his comb over self-consciously.

"Are you… Mr. Itchen?" Seras asked hesitantly, looking him over. He looked rather young for a realtor who'd been in business for nearly fifty years. The man jumped slightly, shook his head.

"Mr. Itchen's been dead these thirty years past, rest his bones." He looked appropriately solemn.

"Mr. Boles?"

"Likewise." He wiped his hands again on his napkin, as if afraid he'd missed some part. "May he rest in peace."

"Then you're Mr. Coombs." Seras smiled. The man smiled as well.

"Junior," he clarified. He looked at the half sandwich remaining, as though weighing his options.

"Please, don't stop on my account," she said politely, taking a seat in an empty chair in front of a locked bookcase. "I'm Seras, Seras Victoria."

"Ah, Ms. Victoria." He took another bite, nodding and wagging his finger at her. "You're the new policewoman at the station; I remember your email."

"Yes, sir." She looked down at her new badge, her face awkwardly smiling on the front.

"How do you like our sleepy little town?" he asked jovially, taking a sip from the mug of coffee on his desk.

"Whitecliff is a beautiful town," Seras replied honestly, hands resting in her lap. "It's a far cry from London, but it's just what I was looking for."

"And you'll be wanting a house." He pulled some papers towards him. "I've gone ahead and picked out a few places I thought would be…" he paused, looking at her, "suitable for a young lady in your situation." She smiled civilly, letting the sentence pass over her as she couldn't tell whether it was meant as a compliment or a subtle insult.

"I'll be happy to see them."

"Yes, yes, well…" he wiped his mouth again and set the sandwich on its wrapper. "Bowles Yard," he announced, handing over the first sheet for her perusal. "Seaside villa, three beds, two recept, complete offices, gas-and-water, ideally near bus stops," he continued, nodding at her, "private garden. £8,814, with a £700 deposit." Seras felt her jaw drop to the ground, but cleared her throat and managed a smile.

"I'm afraid that's a little too expensive," she admitted. "Do you have anything a little cheaper?" He smiled at her, turning over the next page. The smile left his face and he flipped it again, tapping the next with his finger.

"Ah, here," he said, a little nervously. "Laburnum Mount. First-class residential street. "Four bed, one recept, sunroom—" As he spoke, Seras slipped the passed-over page from the growing stack and peered at it. Curiosity had been the catalyst, but the moment she saw the house, her heart sang. "—company's gas-and-water, beautifully planted, short walk to the shoppes—"

"This one." Seras handed him the paper. He took it, paled, frowned, looked at her, and gave a sort of condescending smile.

"What was that, madam?"

"This place. It's exactly the sort of place I'm looking for." Seras smiled at the clearly abandoned lot. It looked a bit decrepit, the gardens in need of proper weeding, the shutters refastening, the wooden porch painting. But it was beautiful in its own way, with rising spires not unlike a cathedral and a stately, if not antique, air.

"Oh, no, no, no," the man muttered, the nostrils of his hooked nose flaring as he pulled the sheet from her hands gently, but firmly. "That place wouldn't suit you at all. Now, Laburnum Mount," he repeated. Seras stared oddly as he began repeating the Mount's features, taking the sheet back again and looking at the house. Something in the stained glass windows of the second story, of the iron balcony of the right tower, of the overgrown hedgerows and lone willow—it called to her.

"This one," she repeated obstinately, "is perfect. And only £3,800; that's cheap for a fully furnished house." She hadn't any furniture of her own to take, with her parents furnishings liquidated for their funeral and Great Aunt Eva not giving her any help towards her own place.

"It's a terrible price!" the man shouted, taking the sheet back. She reclaimed it just as quickly, glaring at him.

"Then there must be something wrong with it. The plumbing?" This pricked his pride.

"If Itchen, Bowles, and Coombe put a house up for sale, there is _nothing_ wrong with it." He eyed her with a scowl. She eyed him back, brandishing the paper with a flick of the wrist.

"Then why would it not suit me?" The man took the paper again, this time a mask of false ease on his face. She peered at him, noting the quick movements of his eyes.

"My dear young lady, you must let me be the judge of that," he laughed anxiously. "I'm not even sure how that paper got mixed up with these other, more suitable homes—"

"But if I'm going to live in the house," Seras cut him off smoothly, her hands resting on the sheet with fingers splayed over the house's image, "then I should be the judge."

"Y-you'll only waste your time!"

"It's my time to waste," she responded, brow arching. "If you won't rent it to me, I believe I saw another rental agency in Whitecliff during my tour of the town this morning. Maybe they'll have a better price."

"Fine, fine!" Smoothing the ends of his mustache with his fingers, he sighed and rubbed his temples. "Whitby Chur—Gull Cottage."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I—" He looked abashedly at his desk. "The locals here refer to that house as Whitby Church." He waved his hands in the air vaguely. "You know… from Dracula."

"Why?" Seras laughed, looking at the cottage as though it were a sunny villa instead of a gloomy manor. "It just needs a little fixing up is all," she mused. "Two bed, servant's bath—that's all Walter and I need, really." Mr. Coombe Jr. shook his head, but grabbed his coat from a hook.

"I'll drive you there myself, if you're dead-set on owning the horror house," he offered reluctantly. "But don't blame me when you turn tail the first moment you step through that door!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Seras is not quite as scared as a grown man.

Seras stood on the edge of the cliff while Mr. Coombe Jr. parked the car, looking out at the bright, brilliant ocean. The blue stretched to the faded white-grey of the horizon, gulls sweeping down left and right to soar over the white-capped waves that crashed to a climax on the rocky shore beneath. She breathed the fresh, salty air, heard the call of birds and baa-baaing of sheep in the rocky fields they'd passed on their way to the house.

Turning, she put a hand on the gate fencepost and looked up at the despondent visage of a home. It had gotten worse since the picture had been taken, the salt spray peeling the paint from the sides of the house and the windows collecting a brown dust on every inch of glass. The porch was leaning, one side nearly fallen in from disrepair, but Seras saw nothing except opportunity. _It'll be a wonderful house, once I get my first few paychecks and start on repairs._ She tilted her head, looking at the brambles climbing up the eastern side of the home and reaching for the missing shingles of the roof. Above it, the smaller left tower and larger right tower cut unevenly across the clouded sky like broken battlements.

"It feels…" she murmured, a hand going to her throat involuntarily. "It feels as though I'm being watched…."

"Uh, Ms. Victoria?" The realtor came from around the greenhouse, where he'd parked the car in the absence of a proper drive. He looked up at the house with paled cheeks and a trembling smile. "It's, err… it's only a short drive to Laburnum Mount…" he offered.

"But I want to see the inside," she protested, pointing at the sagging porch. He started, as if an electrical current had gone straight through him.

"T-t-the inside?" he repeated faintly, the master set of keys limp in his grasp.

"Yes!" She tilted her head at him before clearing the two rotten steps leading to the door. The porch creaked ominously beneath her weight, but didn't give. "What on earth's the matter?" she called down to him. "I thought you were worried about wasted time!" He shook his head again, pushing his sunglasses up onto his forehead.

"If you insist," he sighed, climbing the stairs and nearly losing his boot when the topmost one cracked. He winced at her, as if saying 'see what I mean?', and then she stepped back to let him pass to the door. He flipped through his keys, and she tried to peer into the dirt-caked windows as she waited. She could see nothing but her own grimy reflection staring back at her, eyes full of hope.

There was a rusty squeal of a tumbler and then the door swung open, only to have the lower hinge break. Mr. Coombe Jr. looked at it, then at her, and held out an inviting hand with a wry smile. She slipped past him to the inside of the house, stopping in the foyer area and surveying it with a smile.

The foyer dipped down past two carved pillars into a larger area that seemed to serve as a room in itself, though there wasn't much other than a single rocking chair and a few end tables pushed around the walls. The stairs ended her, stopping once at a half-landing and then climbing towards the upper story. She walked over to them, happily noting that here the floorboards didn't creak at all. She glanced at the sturdy column that held the railing in place, blowing at it. a cloud of dust flew into the air, dancing in the dim light from the windows.

"Dusty," she said needlessly, turning around and looking at the bare walls. Mr. Coombe Jr. shrugged.

"It's been empty for years. The last tenant only stayed two days." He pointed to the back of the house. "Office is back there, living on the right, dining off the living." He looked around skittishly, following her closely as he spoke. She wondered whether he meant for her protection, or his own. Did he think she'd fall through the floor here?

She shook her head and pressed lightly on the double doors leading to the living area, peering through a crack. The light fell on a face, grim and dark, and for a moment she was startled into thinking that another person was in the house. Her heart leapt in her chest and _thud-ump-bumped_ heavily against her ribs, but she was nothing if not brave and let the doors fly open, standing with set feet and squared shoulders in the threshold. The light from the foyer fell and dispelled the shadows in the room, proving the face to be nothing more than a large portrait.

"Oh," she sighed in mingled relief and disappointment, shaking her head once more at the portrait. She stepped into the room, looking up at it as she drew closer. It was a man of perhaps nine and thirty, or even in his forties, dressed in a black suit with a red cloak—the kind her own great-great grandfather was dressed up in, in the small daguerreotype her Aunt Eva kept on the mantle in the drawing room. His dark hair was long and slightly curled, brushed smoothly over his shoulders and framing the pointed chin, the long nose, the pale visage, the high brow. His mouth was a thin line, his shoulders broad, his face the vision of aristocracy. He looked severe and icy, but in the eyes—oddly colored, though she assumed the portrait's colors had faded what was meant to be brown eyes to a dull red-orange—in his eyes, there was an intelligence, a cunning and wry, _humored_ expression that flickered as embers might.

 _The portrait maker must have been a master indeed, to catch that sort of expression in a man's gaze._ She felt the realtor come up behind her.

"It's a painting," she said, her eyes still locked with the man in the portrait. "For a moment, I thought… who is it?" Mr. Coombe Jr. drew back the heavy brocade curtains, letting in more light as well as a beautiful view of the sea.

"The, uh, original owner. A Count… Alucard." He took in a quick breath and looked away, anywhere in the room but at the portrait.

"A count, you say." She tore her gaze away, turning in a slow circle to see the old-fashioned furniture, the dull reds and browns, the silk wallpaper and regal carpet. "That explains the décor, then."

"Which is in frightful taste!" the man replied, pursing his lips at an old globe with a burnt mark covering eastern Europe.

"We'll have to agree to disagree on that," Seras laughed, pulling aside the curtains to the opposite window. She wrinkled her nose. "What an ugly tree!" she fussed, looking at the skinny, skimpier willow that grew right in the way of what would have otherwise been a picturesque view of the hills.

"I beg of you to not be so… precipitous!" She turned, staring blankly. "Hasty," he amended with a blush. "I tell you, this house will not suit you at all!"

"It suits me perfectly," she declared, running a hand over the red damask of a chaise lounge beneath the window. "And the furniture will do as it is, after Walter runs a vacuum over it." She clicked her tongue at the willow. "But that tree ruins the view. I think I'll have it chopped down."

As she turned from the window, a cold, creeping draft fell across her shoulders and she paused, certain that she'd heard something like a light cough. Playing it again in her mind, she thought it might have actually been a word, or even two words. Blinking rapidly, she looked over her shoulder at the wan businessman still wringing his hands in the center of the room.

"Did you say something?" she asked, eyeing him strangely. He shook his head. _The wind,_ her mind reasoned. _I'll have to find that draft and nail it up._ "Well," she began, turning back around and keeping her ears pricked for more sounds, and perhaps more holes to be boarded. "I think I'd better see the rest of it."

"As you like."

* * *

She went to the kitchen, tried the taps, peered into the stove, and nodded to Mr. Coombe Jr.

 _Walter will like this,_ she thought happily, imagining her old friend spending winter evenings before the warm oven, polishing the silver. He was more of a friend than a family butler, and she wanted him to be as comfortable as she in this place. Stepping into the dining room, the smile slipped from her face as she saw the remnants of a broken teacup on the table.

"I thought you said no one had been here!"

"No one's lived here," he explained, working his jaw. "The charwoman was here last week, but… she left the key at my office. She won't be back."

"She must have left in a hurry," Seras said, picking up the handle of the cup between her thumb and forefinger. "Loss of a good teacup, I'd say."

"Well." He took a deep breath. "Ms. Victoria, I—"

"Yes, yes. It won't suit me." She looked at the wooden paneling of the dining room, the French doors that led onto a grassy, yet beautiful courtyard. _Walter will like that as well…._ "But it does. Now, the upstairs." They climbed the stairs, her gloves picking up dust from the railing, until they both stood on the upper landing. She pointed at another set of stairs, and she shrugged again.

"They lead to the main bedroom, in the right tower." She nodded and climbed them, which wound around and around inside the tower before arriving at a small door. Opening it up, she found a bedroom fit for a king. A mahogany four-poster bed with burgundy curtains, chest of drawers and bureau of the same. Before the door that led to the iron balcony, she saw the oddest of things—a large chair, gilded with gold and stuffed with a velvet cushion.

"Ah, so here is where the count must have sat," she said, running her hand over the arm of the chair. She walked past it and opened the door. Light fell across it and she peered closer. "But…" Mr. Coombe Jr. stood in the doorway, looking concerned. "Oh, that's what it is; you're clean!" she laughed. The room seemed to fill with her laughter, breathe it in and expel it out the open door, where it mingled with the sea air.

"I'm sorry?"

"Not you," she laughed again. "The chair." She turned to the door, intending to step out onto the balcony, when a warm chuckle was added to the ghost of her own laughter. "Did you laugh, Mr. Coombe?" she asked, still staring at the sea. The chuckle became a laugh, a gale, a roar, and then something like hysterics. "Mr. Coombe?" she turned to see the man white as a sheet, taking one look at her before running through the open door and slamming it shut behind him. She heard him trip on the stairs as the entire house seemed to shake with the loud screeches of laughter.

More worried about him than herself, she shut the door of the balcony and skipped the steps three at a time, steadying herself with her hands on the walls. She leaped down the second set of stairs, skidded across the rug, jumped the foyer and ran across the rotting porch. Mr. Coombe, who'd had the decency to wait with the front door open, slammed it shut behind her and nearly broke the upper hinge as well.

"Didn't want to show it to you, but no—you _had_ to see it," he blubbered as he locked the door with shaking hands. She stood on the front walk, looking up at the right tower with her eyes wide open and mouth hanging agape, only slightly. Mr. Coombe Jr. moved to join her, but before he could push her away she laughed. It was a joyous one, borne with the frivolity of youth.

"A haunted house!" she exclaimed happily, snapping her fingers. "Amazing!"

"Amazing!?" the realtor repeated, choking on the word. "This house is driving me to drink!" he admitted, throwing his hand up in the direction of the tower. "Four times I've rented it, four times! And not a single soul stayed a full week." He shivered, shaking his head. "The owner is someone in Australia, some 'Renfield' fellow. I've written to him, phoned him, emailed and faxed begging him to release me of this horrid estate, but he only ever replies with 'Rely on You'," he ranted, before throwing his sunglasses to the ground. "Well, I don't want to be relied upon anymore!"

"I'm sorry—" Seras began, but he wasn't through.

"I don't want to ever see this house again! I wish that Count had lived to be a hundred! I wish he'd never been born! A curse on him!"

"Well… you don't have to see it again. I've decided to take it," she announced, to both him and the house."

"The damn—y-you what?!" Seras nodded, crossing her arms.

"After all, if a person runs off at the slightest sound, then of course it'll never be rented out properly. And even if it _is_ haunted, I'm not frightened of something as insignificant as an apparition."

"But… you heard it laugh!"

"So I did. I'll just laugh all the louder as I pay my £25 a month and live a nice and cozy life in Whitby Church," she replied with a wink. "After all, I _am_ a policewoman. I shouldn't be scared much of anything," she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

"If I may say so," he answered, catching his breath, "fiddlesticks."

"Fiddlesticks indeed. I want Gull Cottage."

"In my opinion, you're the most obstinate young woman I've ever met!" She beamed at him, looking out at the sea before climbing into the passenger seat of his car.

"Thank you! I've always wanted to be considered obstinate."


End file.
